


So Hold Me, Lover, Like You Used To

by theatretechlesbian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Chronic Pain, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Post-Apocalypse, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Vomiting, Whump, jon is in a Lot of pain, kind of anyway, martin to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29557104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatretechlesbian/pseuds/theatretechlesbian
Summary: Years after the Institute and the Apocalypse, Jon's old injuries sometimes decide to flare up. This time, it's the ribs - or lack thereof.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 10
Kudos: 125





	So Hold Me, Lover, Like You Used To

**Author's Note:**

> TW:  
> Vomiting  
> Pain  
> Brief descriptions of burns  
> Rib Trauma
> 
> Full Content Warnings in the End Notes
> 
> Title from 'Wild Blue Yonder' by The Amazing Devil

As soon as they woke up properly, Jon wanted to go back to sleep. Or at least not be conscious. It'd been fine, their eyes had opened to the sunlight trying to spill through the curtains, escaping into the room around the edges of the fabric. It was when they had decided to turn over, and pain struck their side like a bolt. They groaned, scarred hand moving immediately to hold that area of flesh that had become so much more vulnerable.

It was going to be one of _those_ days.

 _Those_ days weren't common exactly, not anymore. The random bursts of pain popped up a lot more in the months following the loss of two ribs, but now? Years after it all, the apocalypse, the Institute, everything. The bad days still happened, rarer, but never letting up in severity. 

  
  
Jon didn't want to leave the bed, but they knew that if they didn't take some painkillers now, they would only feel worse later. Their eyes landed on the cold cup of tea on the bedside table. Jon has some bleary memory of Martin putting the mug down, kissing their forehead before leaving for work.

Martin had got them the mug for Christmas, a plain white design with the words "I went through the Apocalypse and all I got was this stupid mug" in Comic Sans on the side. It'd sent Jon into such hysterical laughter at the time that Martin thought they were having a breakdown.

They reached out to double-check that it was cold; after all, it would never do to waste a perfectly drinkable cup of tea. Jon's hand didn't reach the mug - it barely went past their chest before they felt another pain in their side, like they'd been struck.

Usually, the pain would wax and wane, flitting between almost-manageable and severely debilitating. Right now, Jon was closer to the former, remaining ribs aching and, with every movement, feeling like the flesh inside was burning somewhat. Not like they'd scalded themselves, not in the way the Desolation would burn, but instead more akin to holding the back of your hand to a radiator that is far too hot, for far too long. You think that you'll adjust, get used to it eventually, but the pain just increases, and the fat beneath the reddened skin begins to simmer.

They stumbled out of bed, trying to take deep breaths and push through the pain that came with every step. Jon just about made it to the sink, bracing themselves on the porcelain. Jon stared in the mirror for a moment, the world disappearing around them as they took in the face in front of them. The scars seemed so impossibly obvious today. Jon knew they didn't look as gaunt as they did years ago, but today something in their face was painfully similar to how they looked back then.

They grabbed the paracetamol and shakily popped out two from the packet. The second pill got stuck in their throat, making them gag slightly and leaving a bitter taste in their mouth. _Because the stabbing fire in their flank wasn't enough pain for today._

Jon generally had some more powerful painkillers for days like this, ones prescribed by a very confused doctor. (Missing ribs, and a hundred or so inexplicable scars would do that.) Alas, they'd run out the last time Jon had had one of _those_ days, and they hadn't gotten around to refilling their medicine cabinet. 

The minutes seemed to drag along, but soon the painkillers kicked in, and numbed the twisting pain in Jon's torso. It wasn't gone completely, shop-bought painkillers would never manage that, but the pain had calmed enough that Jon could work. They made it to the table where the stack essays they'd taken home from work was currently laying. Jon often tried to get their marking done at this sort of time, whilst Martin was still at work. They briefly glanced at the clock propped up on the dresser, and had to double take. It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon. 

Jon was questioning their own eyes at that point. They'd been sure it was morning. Granted they had slept in, but they hadn't realised they'd overslept that much. This gave them just over 3 hours to get the work done, so they turned over the first page and began to read the scrawled words about Shakespeare, red pen at the ready.

The pain killers wore off far too soon, Jon had barely touched the pile of papers. Some small voice in Jon reminded them that _you should really text Martin. He'd come back, he'd make it all ok._

That was a lie. Martin was no magician, he wouldn't be able to just kiss the pain away. He made things better, of course he did - the man has spent his entire life caring for other people. Martin would be able to find the perfect blanket or the right brand of chicken noodle soup, and he was amazing at just being there.  
But right now, Martin was at work. It would only be an hour or so before he came home, however that irritating but dull ache, the tingling and burning sensation, had turned into a roaring pain. Jon's entire rib cage felt like it was trying to rip itself apart, the area where Hopworth had taken their ribs felt like someone was sticking a hot poker into them.

They tried to stand, knowing that if they had any chance of surviving the next hour, they would need to be lying down. Unfortunately, standing up set off a hundred other dominoes of pain. Their head began to swim, vertigo making them dizzy and flickering shadows crowding in their periphery. And with the dizziness came the violent nausea. 

It didn't matter how much it hurt, Jon moved as quickly as they could to the bathroom, holding back their retching. They got there just as they lost control, the already empty stomach contorting as the bile pushed its way up. The bitterness coated the inside of Jon's mouth as their stomach acid splashed into the toilet bowl. They barely had the coherency to feel disgusted at this point, as with each and every gag, Jon's torso that was already roaring with pain somehow got so much worse.

They continued throwing up until Jon was convinced that the next thing to come up would be their actual organs. They certainly felt that way, with watery tears running down their cheeks as they spat acidic saliva into the bowl.

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor were a blessing at this point. Jon lowered themselves down as gentle as they were able, desperate for just a moment of peace or relief.

And that's where Jon was when they heard the jingle of keys, and a soft voice calling out. "I'm home!"

Usually, Jon would meet Martin at the door, or as close as they could manage. But right now the most Jon could manage was sitting up. The pain had let up marginally, allowing for slight and slow movements.

Martin's voice came again. "Jon? Are you ok?" 

The door to the bathroom had been left ajar, but the light wasn't on. The sun had gone down enough that Jon could hear Martin turning lights on as he padded through their apartment. Jon didn't want Martin to find them this way, so they took a deep breath and pushed themselves up off the floor, using the rim of the bathtub to aid in their uprighting.

They managed to get to the doorway of the bathroom before Martin found them. He was frowning, worried lines etched into his forehead. It was as much as Jon could do to smile weakly as Martin began to question. "Christ Jon, what happened? Are you alright?"

They didn't know what possessed them to say it, but it was out of their mouth before they knew it. "I'm fine, just a little-"

It all went wrong the moment Jon stopped leaning on the door frame and decided to take a step forward. Their legs were shaky from a mixture of pain and exhaustion, and refused to hold them up. Jon went falling forward, vision darkening at the edges.

Martin caught them. Martin, with his warm jumpers and his worried face. Martin, who was holding and looking at Jon like they were something impossibly precious, despite how grim they had to look right now, still in the same clothes they slept in, bile and spit probably in their hair. 

"I'm sorry, I just," Jon murmured into Martin's jumper, "It's just a bad day. My ribs, they just _hurt_." Their voice broke at the end, and Martin simply held them a little closer.

The next minutes passed in a blur. As much as Jon hated to put him in the position of caretaker, Martin was very good at it. He had carried Jon to the bed, laying them out carefully with pillows on their every side. He bustled about, grabbing water and painkillers. 

Martin pushed the pile of laundry on the chair rather unceremoniously onto the floor, and pulled it to be by the side of the bed. He popped a couple of the pills, handing them over with a glass of water. Something flickered over his eyes, and suddenly he was frowning again. "Have you eaten today?"

Jon knocked back the pills and then the rest of the water, trying not to meet Martin's gaze. They could only stare at the glass for so long, before looking back up at their husband and shaking their head in shame. "I meant to, really, but I woke up late, and I had the marking to do and then I was throwing up."

Martin didn't say anything, but there was something indecipherably soft in the look he gave Jon before he left, presumably to get food. Martin's actual facial expressions were easy to read; he was sad, hurt, a little bit angry and worried to a fault. The indecipherability came from Jon's own insecurities. They knew that Martin loved them, they still remembered his wedding vows word for word. But on days like this, when Jon couldn't really do anything apart from lie down and try not to wallow in self-pity? Those were the days that Jon found themselves in disbelief at the care offered. 

As the two of them sat and ate together, a bland meal that Martin had to keep reminding Jon to eat slowly so that it stayed down, Jon could already see the conversation they would be having tomorrow. About communication, and self-preservation, and _Please Jon, just phone me, or text me next time._

But for now, Jon would let themselves become woozy from the medication, covered in blankets and eventually joined in the bed by Martin, and they would fall asleep. Tomorrow was another day.

**Author's Note:**

> CW:  
> Vomiting - Jon becomes very nauseous from pain, throws up in the bathroom. The feeling of vomiting is described in a mildly graphic way  
> Pain - Jon is in varying degrees of pain throughout the fic, and it is referred to and described in detail  
> Brief descriptions of burns - a lot of Jon's pain is described as burning  
> Rib Trauma - Jared Hopworth is mentioned, Jon refers to the pain in their ribs/ribcage area consistently


End file.
